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Title: A Night in Monk-Hall Author: George Lippard * A Project Gutenberg of Australia eBook * eBook No.: 0605911h.html Language: English Date first posted: August 2006 Date most recently updated: August 2006 This eBook was produced by: Richard Scott Project Gutenberg of Australia eBooks are created from printed editions which are in the public domain in Australia, unless a copyright notice is included. We do NOT keep any eBooks in compliance with a particular paper edition. Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing this file. This eBook is made available at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg of Australia License which may be viewed online at http://gutenberg.net.au/licence.html To contact Project Gutenberg of Australia go to http://gutenberg.net.au
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Six years ago, in 1836, on a foggy night in spring, at the hour of one o'clock, I found myself reposing in one of the chambers of this mansion, on an old-fashioned bed, side by side with a girl, who, before her seduction, had resided in my native village. It was one o'clock when I was aroused by a hushed sound, like the noise of a distant struggle. I awoke, started up in bed, and looked round. The room was entirely without light, save from the fire-place, where a few pieces of half-burned wood, emitted a dim and uncertain flame. Now it flashed up brightly, giving a strange lustre to the old furniture of the room, the high-backed mahogany chairs, the antiquated bureau, and the low ceiling, with heavy cornices around the walls. Again the flame died away and all was darkness. I listened intently. I could hear no sound, save the breathing of the girl who slept by my side. And as I listened, a sudden awe came over me. True, I heard no noise, but that my sleep had been broken by a most appalling sound, I could not doubt. And the stories I had heard of Monk-hall came over me. Years before, in my native village, a wild rollicking fellow, Paul Western, Cashier of the County Bank, had indulged my fancy with strange stories of a brothel, situated in the outskirts of Philadelphia. Paul was a wild fellow, rather good looking, and went often to the city on business. He spoke of Monk-hall as a place hard to find, abounding in mysteries, and darkened by hideous crimes committed within its walls. It had three stories of chambers beneath the earth, as well as above. Each of these chambers was supplied with trap doors, through the which the unsuspecting man might be flung by his murderer, without a moment's warning. There was but one range of rooms above the ground, where these trap-doors existed. From the garret to the first story, all in the same line, like the hatchways in a storehouse, sank this range of trap-doors, all carefully concealed by the manner in which the carpets were fixed. A secret spring in the wall of any one of these chambers, communicated with the spring hidden beneath the carpet. The spring in the wall might be so arranged, that a single footstep pressed on the spring, under the carpet, would open the trap-door, and plunge the victim headlong through the aperture. In such cases no man could stride across the floor without peril of his life. Beneath the ground another range of trap-doors were placed in the same manner, in the floors of three stories of the subterranean chambers. They plunged the victim--God knows where! With such arrangements for murder above and beneath the earth, might there not exist hideous pits or deep wells, far below the third story under ground, where the body of the victim would rot in darkness forever? As I remembered these details, the connection between Paul Western, the cheerful bachelor, and Emily Walraven, the woman who was sleeping at my side, flashed over my mind. The child of one of the first men of B--, educated without regard to expense by the doaring father, with a mind singularly masculine, and a tall queenly form, a face distinguished for its beauty and a manner remarkable for its ladylike elegance, poor Emily had been seduced, some three years before, and soon after disappeared from the town. Her seducer no one knew, though from some hints dropped casually by my friend Paul, I judged that he at least could tell. Rumors came to the place, from time to time in relation to the beautiful but fallen girl. One rumor stated that she was now living as the mistress of a wealthy planter, who made his residence at times in Philadelphia. Another declared that she had become a common creature of the town, and this--great God, how terrible!--killed her poor father. The rumor flew round the village to-day--next Sunday old Walraven was dead and buried. They say that in his dying hour he charged Paul Western with his daughter's shame, and shrieked a father's curse upon his head.
He left no property, for his troubles had preyed on his mind until he neglected his affairs, and he died insolvent.
Well two years passed on, and no one heard a word more of poor Emily. Suddenly in the spring of 1836, when this town as well as the whole Union was convulsed with the fever of speculation, Paul Western, after a visit to Philadelphia, with some funds of the Bank, amounting to near thirty thousand dollars, in his possession, suddenly disappeared, no one knew whither.
My father was largely interested in the bank. He despatched me to town, in order that I might make a desperate effort to track up the footsteps of Western. Some items in the papers stated that the Cashier had fled to Texas, others that he had been drowned by accident, others that he had been spirited away. I alone possessed a clue to the place of his concealment--thus ran my thoughts at all events--and that clue was locked in the bosom of Emily Walraven, the betrayed and deeply-injured girl. Sometime before his disappearance, and after the death of old Wairaven, Paul disclosed to me, under a solemn pledge of secrecy, the fact that Emily was living in Philadelphia under his protection, supported by his money. He stated that he had furnished rooms at the brothel called Monk-hall. With this fact resting on my mind, I had hurried to Philadelphia. For days my search for Emily Walraven was in vain. One night, when about giving up the chase as hopeless, I strolled to the Chesnut Street Theatre. Forrest was playing Richelieu--there was a row in the third tier--a bully had offered violence to one of the ladies of the town. Attracted by the noise, I joined the throng rushing up stairs, and beheld the girl who had been stricken, standing pale and erect, a small poignard in her upraised hand, while her eyes flashed with rage as she dared the drunken 'buffer' to strike her again. I stood thunderstruck as I recognized Emily Walraven in the degraded yet beautiful woman who stood before me.
Springing forward, with one blow I felled the bully to the floor, and in another moment, seizing Emily by the arm, I hurried down stairs, evaded the constables, who were about to arrest her, and gained the street. It was yet early in the evening--there were no cabs in the street--so I had to walk home with her.
All this I remembered well, as I sat listening in the lonely room.
I remembered the big tears that started from her eyes when she recognized me, her wild exclamations when I spoke of her course of life. "Don't talk to me--" she had almost shrieked as we hurried along the street---"it's too late for me to change now. For God's sake let me be happy in my degradation."
I remembered the warm flush of indignation that reddened over her face, as pointing carelessly to a figure which I observed through the fog, some distance ahead, I exclaimed--"Is not that Paul Western yonder?" Her voice was very deep and not at all natural in its tone as she replied, with assumed unconcern--"I know nothing about the man." At last, after threading a labyrinth of streets, compared to which the puzzling-garden was a mere frolic, we had gained Monk-hall, the place celebrated by the wonderful stories of my friend Western. Egad! As we neared the door I could have sworn that I beheld Western himself disappear in the door but this doubtless, I reasoned, had been a mere fancy.
Silence still prevailed in the room, still I heard but the sound of Emily breathing in her sleep, and yet my mind grew more and more heavy, with some unknown feeling of awe. I remembered with painful distinctness the hang-dog aspect of the door-keeper who had let us in, and the cut-throat visages of his two attendants seemed staring me visibly in the face. I grew quite nervous.
Dark ideas of murder and the devil knows what, began to chill my very soul. I bitterly remembered that I had no arms. The only thing I carried with me was a slight cane, which had been lent me by the Landlord of the Hotel. It was a mere switch of a thing.
As these things came stealing over me, the strange connexion between the fate of Western and that of the beautiful woman who lay beside me, the sudden disappearance of the former, the mysterious character of Monk-hall, the startling sounds which had aroused me, the lonely appearance of the room, fitfully lighted by the glare on the hearth, all combined, deepened the impression of awe, which had gradually gained possession of my faculties. I feared to stir. You may have felt this feeling--this strange and incomprehensible feeling--but if you have not, just imagine a man seized with the night-mare when wide awake.
I was sitting upright in bed, chilled to the very heart, afraid to move an inch, almost afraid to breathe, when, far, far down through the chambers of the old mansion, I heard a faint hushed sound, like a man endeavouring to cry out when attacked by night-mare, and then--great God how distinct!--I heard the cry of 'Murder, murder, murder!' far, far, far below me.
The cry aroused Emily from her sleep. She started up in the bed and whispered, in a voice without tremor--"What is the matter Boyd--"
"Listen--" I cried with chattering teeth, and again, up from the depths of the mansion welled that awful sound, Murder! MURDER! MURDER! growing louder every time. Then far, far, far down I could hear a gurgling sound. It grew fainter every moment. Fainter, fainter, fainter. All was still as death.
"What does this mean?" I whispered almost fiercely, turning to Emily by my side--"What does this mean?" And a dark suspicion flashed over my mind.
The flame shot upward in the fire-place, and revealed every line of her intellectual countenance.
Her dark eyes looked firmly in my face as she answered, "In God's name I know not!"
The manner of the answer satisfied me as to her firmness, if it did not convince me of her innocence. I sat silent and sullen, conjuring over the incidents of the night.
"Come, Boyd--" she cried, as she arose from the bed--"You must leave the house. I never entertain visitors after this hour. It is my custom. I thank you for your protection at the theatre, but you must go home--"
Her manner was calm and self-possessed. I turned to her in perfect amazement.
"I will not leave the house--" I said, as a dim vision of being attacked by assassins on the stairway, arose to my mind.
"There is Devil-Bug and his cut-throat negroes--" thought I--"nothing so easy as to give me a 'cliff' with a knife from some dark corner; nothing so secret as my burial-place in some dark hole in the cellar--"
"I won't go home--" said I, aloud.
Emily looked at me in perfect wonder. It may have been affected, and it may have been real.
"Well then, I must go down stairs to get something to eat--" she said, in the most natural manner in the world--"I usually eat something about this hour--"
"You may eat old Devil-Bug and his niggers, if you like--" I replied laughing--"But out of this house my father's son don't stir till broad daylight."
With a careless laugh, she wound her night-gown round her, opened the door, and disappeared in the dark. Down, down, down, I could hear her go, her footsteps echoing along the stairway of the old mansion, down, down, down. In a few moments all was still.
Here I was, in a pretty 'fix: In a lonely room at midnight, ignorant of the passages of the wizard's den, without arms, and with the pleasant prospect of the young lady coming back with Devil-Bug and his niggers to despatch me. I had heard the cry of 'Murder'--so ran my reasoning--they, that is the murderers--would suspect that I was a witness to their guilt, and, of course, would send me down some d--d trap-door on an especial message to the devil.
This was decidedly a bad case. I began to look around the room for some chance of escape, some arms to defend myself, or, perhaps from a motive of laudible curiosity, to know something more about the place where my death was to happen.
One moment, regular as the ticking of a clock, the room would be illuminated by a flash of red light from the fire-place, the next it would be dark as a grave. Seizing the opportunity afforded by the flash, I observed some of the details of the room. On the right side of the fire-place there was a closet: the door fastened to the post by a very singular button, shaped like a diamond; about as long as your little finger and twice as thick. On the other side of the fire-place, near the ceiling, was a small oblong window, about as large as two half sheets of writing paper, pasted to-gether at the ends. Here let me explain the use of this window. The back part of Monk-hall is utterly destitute of windows. Light, faint and dim you may be sure, is admitted from the front by small windows, placed in the wall of each room. How many rooms there are on a floor, I know not, but, be they five or ten, or twenty, they are all lighted in this way.
Well, as I looked at this window, I perceived one corner of the curtain on the other side was turned up. This gave me very unpleasant ideas. I almost fancied I beheld a human face pressed against the glass, looking at me. Then the flash on the hearth died away, and all was dark. I heard a faint creaking noise--the light from the hearth again lighted the place--could I believe my eyes--the button on the closet-door turned slowly round!
Slowly--slowly--slowly it turned, making a slight grating noise. This circumstance, slight as it may appear to you, filled me with horror. What could turn the button, but a human hand?
Slowly, slowly it turned, and the door sprung open with a whizzing sound. All was dark again.
The cold sweat stood out on my forehead. Was my armed murderer waiting to spring at my throat? I passed a moment of intense horror. At last, springing hastily forward, I swung the door shut, and fastened the button. I can swear that I fastened it as tight as ever button was fastened.
Regaining the bed I silently awaited the result. Another flash of light--Great God!--I could swear there was a face pressed against the oblong window! Another moment and it is darkness--creak, creak, creak--is that the sound of the button again? It was light again, and there, before my very eyes, the button moved slowly round! Slowly, slowly, slowly!
The door flew open again. I sat still as a statue. I felt it difficult to breathe. Was my enemy playing with me, like the cat ere she destroys her game!
I absently extended my hand. It touched the small black stick given me by the Landlord of the Hotel in the beginning of the evening. I drew it to me, like a friend. Grasping it with both hands, I calculated the amount of service it might do me. And as I grasped it, the top seemed parting from the lower portion of the cane. Great God! It was a sword cane! Ha-ha! I could at least strike one blow! My murderers should not despatch me without an effort of resistance. You see my arm is none of the puniest in the world; I may say that there are worse men than Boyd Merivale for a fight.
Clutching the sword-cane, I rushed forward, and standing on the threshold of the opened door, I made a lunge with all my strength through the darkness of the recess. Though I extended my arm to its full length, and the sword was not less than eighteen inches longs yet to my utter astonish-ment, I struck but the empty air! Another lunge and the same result!.Things began to grow rather queer. I was decidedly beat out as they say. I shut the closet door again, retreated to the bed, sword in hand, and awaited the result. I heard a sound, but it was the footstep of poor Emily, who that moment returned with a bed-lamp in one hind, and a small waiter, supplied with a boiled chicken and a bottle of wine in the other. There was nothing remarkable in her look, her face was calm, and her boiled chicken and bottle of wine, decidedly common place.
"Great God--" she cried as she gazed in my countenance--"What is the matter with you? Your face is quite livid--and your eyes are fairly starting from their sockets--"
"Good reason--" said I, as I felt that my lips were clammy and white---"That d--d button has been going round ever since you left, and that d--d door has been springing open every time it was shut--"
"Ha-ha-ha--" she laughed--"Would it have sprung open if you had not shut it?"
This was a very clear question and easy to answer; but--"Mark you, my lady--" said I--"Here am I in a lonely house, under peculiar circumstances. I am waked up by the cry of 'Murder'--a door springs open without a hand being visible--a face peers at me through a window. As a matter of course I suspect there has been foul work done here to-night. And through every room of this house, Emily you must lead the way, while I follow, this good sword in hand. If the light goes out, or if you blow it out, you are to be pitied, for in either case, I swear by Living God, I will run you through with this sword--"
"Ha-ha-ha--" she fairly screamed with laughter as she sprung to the closet door--"Behold the mystery--"
And with her fair fingers she pointed to the socket of the button, and to the centre of the door.
The door had been 'sprung,' as it is termed, by the weather. That is, the centre bulged inward, leaving the edge toward the door-post to press the contrary direction. The socket of the button, by continual wear, had been increased to twice its original size. Whenever the door was first buttoned, the head of the screw pressed against one of the edges of the socket. In a moment the pressure of the edge of the door, which you will remember was directed outward, dislodged the head of the screw and it sank, well-nigh half an inch into the worn socket of the button. Then the button, removed farther from the door than at first, would slowly turn, and the door spring open.
All this was plain enough, and I smiled at my recent fright.
"Very good, Emily--" I laughed--"But the mystery of this sword---what of that? I made a lunge in the closet and it touched nothing--"
"You are suspicious, Boyd--" she answered with a laugh--"But the fact is, the closet is rather a deep one--"
"Rather--" said I--"and so are you, my dear--"
There may have been something very meaning in my manner, but certainly, although her full black eyes looked fixedly on me, yet I thought her face grew a shade paler as I spoke.
"And my dear--" I continued--"What do you make of the face peeping through the window:--"
"All fancy--all fancy--" she replied, but as she spoke I saw her eye glance hurriedly toward the very window. Did she too fear that she might behold the face?
"We will search the closet--" I remarked, throwing open the door--"What have we here? Nothing but an old cloak hanging to a hook--let's try it with my sword!"
Again I made a lunge with my sword: again I thrust at the empty air.
"Emily, there is a room beyond this cloak--you will enter first if you please. Remember my warning about the light if you please--"
"Oh now that I remember, this closet does open into the next room--" she said gaily, although her cheek--so it struck me--grew a little paler and her lip trembled slightly--"I had quite forgotten the circumstance--"
"Enter Emily, and don't forget the light--"
She flung the door aside and passed on with the light in her hand. I followed her. We stood in a small room, lighted like the other by an oblong window. There was no other window, no door, no outlet of any sort. Even a chimney-place was wanting. In one corner stood a massive bed---the quilt was unruffled. Two or three old fashioned chairs were scattered round the room, and from the spot where I stood looking over the foot of the bed, I could see the top of another chair, and nothing more, between the bed and the wall.
A trifling fact in Emily's behaviour may be remarked. The moment the light of the lamp which she held in her hand flashed round the room, she turned to me with a smile, and leading the way round the corner of the foot of the bed, asked me in a pleasant voice "Did I see any thing remark-able there?"
She shaded her eyes from the lamp as she spoke, and toyed me playfully under the chin. You will bear in mind that at this moment, I had turned my face toward the closet by which we had entered. My back was therefore toward the part of the room most remote from the closet. It was a trifling fact, but I may as well tell you, that the manner in which Emily held the light, threw that portion of the room, between the foot of the bed and the wall in complete shadow, while the rest of the chamber was bright as day.
Smilingly Emily toyed me under the chin, and at that moment I thought she looked extremely beautiful.
By Jove! I wish you could have seen her eyes shine, and her cheek--Lord bless you--a full blown rose wasn't a circumstance to it. She looked so beautiful, in fact, as she came sideling up to me, that I stepped backward in order to have a full view of her before I pressed a kiss on her pouting lips. I did step back, and did kiss her. It wasn't singular, perhaps, but her lips were hot as a coal. Again she advanced to me, again chucked me under the chin. Again I stepped back to look at her, again I wished to taste her lips so pouting, but rather warm, when---To tell you the truth, stranger, even at this late day the remembrance makes my blood run cold!
--When I heard a sound like the sweeping of a tree-limb against a closed shutter, it was so faint and distant, and a stream of cold air came rushing up my back.
I turned around carelessly to ascertain the cause. I took but a single glance, and then--by G---d--I sprung at least ten feet from the place. There, at my very back, between the bed and the wall, opposite its foot, I beheld a carpeted space some three feet square, sinking slowly down, and separating itself from the floor. I had stepped my foot upon the spring---made ready for me, to be sure--and the trap-door sank below me.
You may suppose my feelings were somewhat excited. In truth, my heart, for a moment, felt as though it was turning to a ball of ice. First I looked at the trap-door and then at Emily. Her face was pale as ashes, and she leaned, trembling, against the bedpost. Advancing, sword in hand, I gazed down the trap-door. Great God! how dark and gloomy the pit looked! From room to room, from floor to floor, a succession of traps had fallen--far below--it looked like a mile, although that was but an exaggeration natural to a highly excited mind--far, far below gleamed a light, and a buzzing murmur came up this hatchway of death.
Stooping slowly down, sword in hand, my eye on the alert for Miss Emily, I disengaged a piece of linen, from a nail, near the edge of the trapdoor. Where the linen--it was a shirt, wristband--had been fastened, the carpet was slightly torn, as though a man in falling had grasped it with his finger ends.
The wristband was, in more correct language, a ruffle for the wrist. It came to my mind, in this moment, that I had often ridiculed Paul Western for his queer old bachelor ways. Among other odd notions, he had worn ruffles at his wrist. As I gathered this little piece of linen in my grasp, the trap-door slowly rose. I turned to look for Miss Emily, she had changed her position, and stood pressing her hand against the opposite wall.
"Now, Miss Emily, my dear--" I cried, advancing toward her--"Give me a plain answer to a plain question--and tell me--what in the devil do you think of yourself?"
Perfectly white in the face, she glided across the room and stood at the foot of the bed, in her former position, leaning against the post for support. You will observe that her form concealed the chair, whose top I had only seen across the bed.
"Step aside, Miss Emily, my dear--" I said, in as quiet a tone as I could command--"Or you see, my lady, I'll have to use a little necessary force--"
Instead of stepping aside, as a peaceable woman would have done, she sits right down in the chair, fixing those full black eyes of hers on my face, with a glance that looked very much like madness.
Extending my hand, I raised her from the seat. She rested like a dead weight in my arms. She had fainted. Wrapped in her night-gown, I laid her on the bed, and then examined the chair in the corner. Something about this chair attracted my attention. A coat hung over the round--a blue coat with metal buttons. A buff vest hung under this coat; and a high stock, with a shirt collar.
I knew these things at once. They belonged to my friend, Paul Western. "And so, my lady--" I cried, forgetting that she had fainted; "Mr. Western came home, from the theatre, to his rooms, arrived just before us, took off his coat and vest, and stock and collar--maybe was just about to take Off his boots--when he stepped on the spring and in a moment was in---in h-ll--"
Taking the light in one hand, I dragged or carried her, into the other room and laid her on the bed. After half an hour or so, she came to her senses.
"You see--you see--" were her first words uttered, with her eyes flashing like live-coals, and her lips white as marble--"You see, I could not help it, for my father's curse was upon him!"
She laughed wildly, and lay in my arms a maniac.
Stranger, I'll make a short story of the thing now. How I watched her all night till broad day, how I escaped from the house--for Mr. Devil-Bug, it seems, didn't suspect I knew anything---how I returned home without any news of Paul Western, are matters as easy to conceive as tell.
Why didn't I institute a search? Fiddle-faddle! Blazon my name to the world as a visitor to a Bagnio? Sensible thing, that! And then, although I was sure in my own soul, that the clothes which I had discovered belonged to Paul Western, it would have been most difficult to establish this fact in Court. One word more and I have done.
Never since that night has Paul Western been heard of by living man. Never since that night has Emily Walraven been seen in this breathing world. You start. Let me whisper a word in your ear. Suppose Emily joined in Western's murder from motives of revenge, what then were Devil-Bug's? (He of course was the real murderer.) Why the money to be sure. Why be troubled with Emily as a witness of his guilt, or a sharer of his money? This is rather a--a dark house, and it's my opinion, stranger, that he murdered her too!
Ha-ha--why here's all the room to ourselves! All the club have either disappeared, or lie drunk on the floor! I saw Fitz-Cowles--I know him---sneak off a few moments since--I could tell by his eye that he is after some devils-trick! The parson has gone, and the judge has gone, the lawyer has fallen among the slain, and so, wishing you good night, stranger, I'll vanish! Beware of the Monks of Monk-hall!
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